To Drown in Blood and Misery
by rainbows-and-desperados
Summary: Jane Banks is a war nurse and sees young men die every day fighting for their country. Michael is about to be conscripted...and Jane is terrified. She's terrified that Michael will come home like the men she puts to rest. She's terrified he won't come home at all. There are hard times ahead for Jane Banks and a loss that could destroy her forever. ***NOT A HAPPY ENDING!***


Jane Banks sighed heavily as she left the army hospital, having just finished her shift. It had been a rough day and afternoon…those poor young men, coming back from the front lines. Some of them were physically marred and mutilated – missing limbs, mostly, and sometimes odder things like eyes or the occasional ear – but some of them weren't physically injured at all.

In fact, looking at them from a distance, you'd assume they were perfectly fine. It wasn't until you looked them in the eyes that you realized…they were far from fine. They'd never be 'fine' again. There was no light in their eyes…they were empty, dead, devoid of any happiness whatsoever. Many of the soldiers were not too much older than she; Jane would estimate the oldest she had treated was – _perhaps _– twenty-three years old. Jane herself was eighteen years old and already working hard as a Red Cross nurse, doing what she could to salvage the young fighters' bodies and minds. It was difficult work, and sometimes heartbreaking and mostly stomach-churning, but so very rewarding.

Of course, her father, George Banks, hadn't been thrilled to learn that his only daughter was going to be a war nurse, but in the end, when he realized that she wasn't about to budge on her choice one bit, he had no choice but to accept it.

Some of the things Jane saw had her waking up in the night in a cold sweat, screams dying in her throat. She didn't sleep well very much anymore. It terrified her to think that in a few short months, her younger brother, Michael, would be conscripted in the British Army to fight. He would be turning eighteen in a few months. She had seen some of the atrocities that happened to these men – some of them were only boys, really – and it scared her to her very core to think that Michael would be in danger of being maimed or killed like that.

She sincerely hoped that the war would be over by then. She doubted it, but she could always hope. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, smoothed out her blue and white dress and her eyes lingered for a second on the bright red cross that adorned her chest.

She sighed again, thinking back on the young man they had lost today. He was so immensely child-like towards the end. They all were. They all asked for their mother in the end. The young man, whose name had been William Miller, had died from trauma, the final call was. Private Miller had been a handsome young man, with eyes as blue as anything. They reminded her of a friend's. Someone she hadn't seen in about seven years. She doubted he'd recognize her now. In fact, now that she thought about it, Private Miller had looked a lot like Bert.

She banished that thought immediately as the image of Bert lying dead in that bed sprung to her mind. That was something she _certainly _didn't want to think about. However, she couldn't help but smile when she thought about her old friend. Yes, it was true; she hadn't seen Bert in years. Not since Mary Poppins left the Banks family, but that didn't mean she didn't think about their artist/musician/chimney sweep friend. She doubted he would have been conscripted, or even enlisted. He had to be in his late forties or early fifties by now, if he hadn't been in his forties when Jane saw him last.

It had been seven years, but she remembered Bert as well as if she'd seen him only yesterday. His eyes were as blue as the sky on a summer's day, and his smile brighter than the sun. His cockney accent only endeared him even more to her, and his kind nature was something she tried to emulate as a young woman.

She and Michael hadn't known Bert very well, or even for very long, but they both cared a great deal about the older man. She wondered where he was now.

Looking up, at last, Jane was surprised to see that her feet had not taken her home to Cherry Tree Lane, but instead to the park where Mary Poppins had taken her and Michael years ago. This was the very park where she and Michael met Bert.

Jane smiled at the memory. The sun was not high in the sky as it would have been a few hours before, but it was still plenty bright out. She cast her eyes on the thin stretch of cement where Bert's drawings had been.

Smiling even more widely now, she decided to rest for a moment and sat down on the wooden bench outside of the park. She could almost see the memory playing out before her very eyes, as if she had time travelled, like in one of HG Wells' novels.

There she was, eleven years old and very much of the opinion that she was grown up. Her blonde hair was tied back from her face and upon her head there was a hat, of a very nice yellow color, if she remembered correctly, with a dress to match. There was her brother beside her, all ten years old and boyish as you please, dressed in blue. And then there was Mary Poppins, their newest (and undoubtedly most successful) nanny. She was young, but held herself in a way that was far beyond her years. Mary was very pretty, with her blue eyes and dark hair. She was dressed very primly and properly, and she refused to stand for any nonsense.

And then…there was Bert. His clothing was smudged with chalk residue, but it didn't subtract from the fact that he dressed rather well. He wore a newsboy cap on his dark-haired head, a grey jacket with a white shirt and what must have been a red ascot. Jane realized then that Bert (at least the one from her memory) was tall, but not as tall as she remembered.

"Ah, a nurse. Just got off a shift, then, eh?"

Jane turned to see who was speaking to her and smiled at the stranger. He had a cockney accent and looked very, very familiar to her. He was an older man, his dark hair threaded with grey, but his eyes shined with a life that belied his years. They were the clearest shade of blue she had ever seen…just like…but no…it couldn't be. Could it?

"Oh," Jane said, realizing that the familiar stranger was patiently waiting for her reply. "Yes. Yes, I did just get off a shift, yes."

"Well, it's admirable work you do, miss. I'd have enlisted meself if I was a younger man, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be much use to anyone, really," he said. Jane looked carefully at the stranger and gestured for him to sit down next to her.

"Much obliged, miss," he said, taking a seat next to her. Jane nodded and looked down at the sidewalk again.

"I think you would," Jane said, looking back up at the man. He looked a bit puzzled and she said, "Be of use. I think you would've been. Every bit counts. My younger brother will be conscripted in a few months. He turns eighteen very soon and he simply can't wait to fight for his country."

The man chuckled and said, "You sound less than thrilled about that."

"Yes, well, with what I see every day, can you blame me? I hardly want my younger brother to come home without a leg, or an arm…but I would prefer even that to him not coming home at all."

"Ah, well, now, you see…you can't think like that. You have to believe that he will come home. And that he'll come home in one piece."

Jane smiled bitterly at the man and said, "I'd rather expect the worst and be delighted, then trick myself into a foolish optimism and be devastated. It's easier that way."

"I suppose it _is _easier that way, but in my experience, sometimes you just have to believe in a happier tomorrow, because to imagine a bleaker future would tear you apart inside. Like an old friend of mine once said, 'a spoonful of sugar helps –"

"'-the medicine go down!'" Jane interjected with a true smile on her face. It _was _Bert! Oh, how she didn't recognize him immediately, she'd never know. She would blame it on her exhaustion.

"You know Mary Poppins, too?" he asked, a look of wonder in his eyes.

"Oh, yes, I do. Or I did, rather. Quite a long time ago now. She took me and my brother to this very park…and there were chalk drawings on the sidewalk, just there," she said, pointing to the very spot she recalled.

She turned back to Bert and smiled when his blue eyes got so wide she feared they may fall out of his head.

"Well, Miss Jane Banks, as I live and breathe!" Bert said, grinning from ear to ear. He stood up and Jane went with him. Before she knew what was happening, Bert had pulled her into a tight, warm embrace. Forgetting just for a moment how improper this all was, she wrapped her arms around Bert's thin waist and hugged him. They were old friends and they only just been reunited. A hug was natural.

"Miss Banks…it is still Miss Banks, isn't it? You haven't gone off and got hitched, have ya?" Bert asked. Jane laughed and said, "No, I'm not married. And please, Bert, call me Jane. We're friends."

"Well, then, Jane…" he said, holding her at arm's length and looking her up and down. "You have grown up, my dear. And a nurse! How about that!"

Jane nodded, rather proudly and Bert beamed at her. They resumed their seats on the bench and Bert said, "So…Michael is about to turn eighteen. Goodness, but the time does fly, don't it?"

"Yes, it does," Jane replied wistfully. "Sometimes I wish I was eleven years old again. I wish I had that time back. Not for myself, you see…no, for Michael. He's so excited, Bert, but he's so very young."

"So are you," the chimney sweep reminded her.

"Yes, but _I _am not the one who might get killed on the front lines. I don't think he understands – really, truly understands – what war is. It's messy and bloody and horrible and traumatizing and…those boys, Bert…they come back wrong. They come back broken…if they come back at all. You have no idea how many times I'll be working the night shift and those mutilated _children _will wake up screaming, without any clue where they are, shouting for their fallen friends. It's horrible, and it's sucking the life out of me, but I need to help in some way."

"Well," Bert said, furrowing his brow, looking like he was choosing his words very carefully. "Have you ever stopped to think that while Michael may not know what he's getting into, maybe he feels he has to contribute too? I know you're frightened for your brother, Jane. Now that I think about it, I can't really imagine the boy I knew going off to war, but the reality is that Michael will be conscripted, and he will fight. The war won't be over in time for Michael to escape the conscription, and even if it did, I imagine he'd enlist anyway."

Jane glared at Bert. "Don't tell me what the _reality _of this situation is, Bert. You don't think I've lain awake at night, dreading the day that my younger brother leaves, perhaps never to come back again?"

Bert frowned. "I'm sure you have. I didn't mean to offend you…"

Jane sighed and her shoulders slumped in exhaustion. "No…I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Bert said bracingly. He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently. "You're under a lot of stress right now, that much is obvious, even to me, but there are some battles you cannot win. This is one of them. You're so very young, Jane. You've seen far more trauma and horror than any eighteen year old girl should ever see, and that has aged you, but you're still young. You can only carry so many burdens before you start collapsing."

Jane nodded. "You're right. I know you're right. It's just so hard not to worry. Father barely reacts anymore, and Mother seems to be in denial about Michael leaving. We don't ever talk about anything and I can't very well tell Michael that I'm afraid he'll die. He'll go anyway, and I don't want to make him doubt his survival. Oh, if ever there was a time for Mary Poppins to come back, this is it. She'd know what to do."

Bert smiled sadly and hugged Jane to him. "I'm sure she would, my dear. I'm sure she would."

* * *

Five years had passed since Bert and Jane were reunited. Michael had been on the front lines only a year when the war finally ended. Jane continued working for the Red Cross, but instead of tending to wounded soldiers, she worked in a medical hospital, as a real nurse, not a war nurse.

Over the time that Michael was gone, Jane never stopped thinking about him once. She and Bert met up in the park whenever she had a break, and their friendship grew deeper and deeper. Any stresses that Jane had, she could speak freely about them to Bert and he would never judge her – he would only offer his advice.

Most of the time, his advice was wonderful. He was much smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for.

The day that the Banks family got the letter that Michael would be coming home, Jane was overjoyed. Her mother celebrated with her, but her father, stiff as ever, harrumphed and muttered that he hoped the war had made his boy a man.

Jane ignored him and as soon as she extricated herself from her mother's grasp, she went running for the park. She found Bert on their wooden bench , charcoal and sketch pad in hand. His brow furrowed as he worked, and the tip of his tongue was poking out from the corner of his mouth. Jane chanced a look over his shoulder and saw that Bert was drawing the occupants of the park; the old men at the stone tables playing chess; the young women strolling along, gossiping furiously; and the little old lady feeding the birds. Jane smiled in memory of the bird woman from her childhood.

"Bert, you'll never believe this!"

"One second…" he requested. Jane obliged, but was nearly jumping out of her skin. She was just so excited. Bert put the finishing touches on his drawing and turned to look at her.

"What's got you so bouncy?" he asked curiously, rubbing his charcoal covered hands on his old pants.

"Michael is coming home! The war has ended, and my brother is coming home!"

Bert's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful news!"

He leapt up from their bench and whisked her into his arms, grinning like a madman. Jane was thrilled about the news that she didn't care what people said when they saw the two embracing.

* * *

Jane had known that Michael would not be the same when he came home, but the man – yes, _man_, not boy anymore – that returned to her was a shell of the person she'd grown up with. His smiles, when they appeared, were bright enough, but if she looked closely, she'd see that they didn't reach his eyes.

And, oh, his eyes. They were almost perpetually wide and empty and so very _cold_. It was like some part of Michael had died in the war, like some part of his soul had gotten left behind. He was lucky; all of his limbs were intact and he could walk still, and speak still and see still. But that didn't mean he wasn't scarred. His mind had shattered. Oh, Michael was sane enough; as sane as one could expect, anyway, but he was just lifeless.

It was almost as though his mind could not comprehend what it had gone through, so it shut down. He barely spoke anymore and some nights Jane could hear him cry and sob and curse angrily until he fell asleep. Some nights he was quiet. Some nights he _screamed_.

She had seen so many soldiers just like him in the hospital; the ones whose scars were on the inside. The ones had seen too much; felt too much…the ones with more damage than any soul should see. They always screamed. They screamed for their comrades, they screamed for home, they screamed for their mothers. They always went quiet in the end. They always died in the end, too.

The nurses and doctors couldn't figure out why they always died. Physically, there was nothing wrong with them. It seemed to Jane that they retreated into themselves so far and just got so lost in their nightmares and got so haunted by their ghosts that they couldn't come back out.

"When the mind goes, the body follows," Jane remembered saying to a fellow nurse as she closed the eyes of yet another dead young soldier. He had gone catatonic nearly a week ago and his organs started failing him. Eventually his lungs shut down and he suffocated. He had only been twenty-five years old.

She could see it happening to Michael. He retreated into himself more every day. Of course, like always, Mother ignored it and Father didn't notice it. However, Jane did, and what killed her inside was that she knew she was watching her brother die and she was powerless to stop it.

* * *

It was raining.

Jane could feel the water pouring down her face, soaking her hair, her clothes, and her skin down to the bone. She was freezing. Her makeup was running. Her dress felt like it weighed several tons. She couldn't be bothered to care anymore. Nothing mattered much anymore, anyway, so what was a little rain?

Her mother and father had long since stopped trying to move her; they had given up hope and gone home hours and hours ago. She'd been standing in the same spot nearly all day, staring at…_it_.

She became vaguely aware that the rain wasn't hitting her anymore and she looked up for the first time in hours. It was Bert, holding a black umbrella. He looked concerned. Jane listened to the rain beat down upon the umbrella for a few moments before looking away again.

"Jane…love, you have to leave now."

"No. I can't."

"Yes, you can. If you stay here, you'll catch your death."

"No, I won't."

"Well, you'll get very sick at the least."

"I feel sick, Bert. I feel sick to my stomach. I saw it happening. I watched it happen and I couldn't do anything to stop it."

"There was nothing you _could _have done."

"What if there was? What if there was something I could have done and I was too stupid to see it?"

"There wasn't. And you're not stupid. You're the smartest woman I know, 'cept for maybe Mary Poppins."

If Bert had hoped that would coax a smile from her, he was sadly disappointed. He sighed heavily.

"Jane, please. Go home. It's over. There's nothing more to be done."

"I can't go back there, Bert. I can't be where…where it happened."

"Then you come to my house. Or anywhere. Just get out of the rain, Jane, please."

"I don't want to. I can't leave him here, Bert. I can't."

"Jane Victoria Winifred Banks, you look at me right now," Bert said firmly. He let the umbrella fall to the muddy ground and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to turn towards him. The rain fell upon their heads steadily and firmly. "He is gone. You hear me, Jane? Michael is _gone_. He's dead, Jane. He's dead and he isn't ever coming back."

Hearing those words – _He's dead _ – snapped something inside her. "**YOU DON'T THINK I KNOW THAT?!**" she screamed.

"**WHY DO YOU THINK I'M STANDING HERE, STARING AT HIS GRAVE? I'M TRYING TO COMPREHEND THAT MY BABY BROTHER IS DEAD AND BURIED RIGHT THERE AND I CAN'T. I CAN'T MOVE. I CAN'T THINK, I CAN'T FEEL ANYTHING. I FEEL NUMB, BERT. EVERYTHING IS NUMB AND COLD AND DARK. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO GO FORWARD NOW. HE WAS MY BROTHER, BERT. MY BABY BROTHER. I WAS SUPPOSED TO PROTECT HIM AND I COULDN'T. I COULDN'T PROTECT HIM AND I COULDN'T SAVE HIM AND HE'S DEAD AND MY HEART HAS SHATTERED INTO A MILLION LITTLE PIECES AND IT FEELS LIKE GLASS STABBING ME OVER AND OVER AGAIN FROM THE INSIDE AND I AM BLEEDING! I AM TRYING MY DAMNEDEST TO BE STRONG AND NOT COLLAPSE HERE AND JUST DIE.**"

The cold rain was an odd combination with the hot tears flowing down her face. It was the first time she had cried since Michael died. But now she was sobbing. Bert was crying, too. "I can't breathe, Bert," she gasped, trying to control the grief ripping through her soul. She rushed at him and clung to him for dear life. "I feel like I can't breathe."

"Just let go, Jane. Let go. I'm here," he whispered, holding her tightly. "I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. Let go."

The floodgates opened and Jane was on her knees, howling with anguish, sobbing her brother's name. She was safe in Bert's arms as they knelt on the wet and muddy ground, both shaking with misery, both crying as hard as was humanly possible.

Set into the ground in front of the grieving friends was a beautiful marble headstone, with black words engraved on it.

_**Here Lies Michael Charles George Banks**_

_**Beloved Son, Brother, and Friend**_

_**Born January 25**__**th**__** 1900**_

_**Died November 5**__**th**__**, 1919**_

_**Aged Nineteen Years, Nine Months **_

"_**Sleep on, dear son, and take thy rest, They miss you most who love you best."**_

* * *

Two teenagers, one blonde and one auburn hair, roamed the graveyard, peering in awe at the older stones and markers.

"Michael Charles George Banks…died November fifth, 1919. Hey, that's today! Wow, he's been dead for eighty years! I wonder who he was. He died really young. Says here he was only nineteen."

"You don't know about Michael Banks?" the redhead asked her friend.

"No. Was he important?"

"Not particularly, no. But his death prompted his older sister, Jane, to research Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in soldiers, and into ways to treat it. You know, Jane Randall?"

"Wait, Jane Randall? Jane Randall was his sister?" the blonde girl exclaimed.

"Yeah…before she died in 1979, she was _the _foremost researcher on PTSD. Of course, she didn't have a name for it back then. They called it shell-shock."

"Wow. So, Michael was a soldier, then, Jenny?"

"Yep. He was conscripted in 1917, when he was eighteen years old. He fought on the front lines of World War I for about a year, but the war ended in 1918, and he came home, but he wasn't the same. He was seriously messed up, Anna."

"So…" Anna trailed off as the two moved on from Michael Banks' grave. "How did he die?"

Jenny hesitated for a moment. Jane Randall was one of Jenny's heroes and she had done her research on the sad tale of Jane's younger brother and the circumstances of his death.

"He hung himself in his and Jane's old nursery. Jane was the one who found him."


End file.
